Tea: Johnlocked
by Little Doctor
Summary: Johnlock fluff. Sherlock hasn't moved from his chair in 48 hours and John is in Majorca. Whatever shall Mycroft do?


**AN: I haven't done anything like this before, so I'm not sure how it turned out.**

 **Constructive criticism welcome, since I haven't ventured into this fandom in a while.**

 **Tea, a Johnlock Story**

Sherlock tapped his fingers rhythmically on the manila case file. An icy pit of anger and frustration had settled in his gut. Although he would like to say he knew the precise amount of time it had been since Donovan foolishly entered the apartment complex without backup, time still seemed to be playing tricks with his head. His train of thought kept looping back and forth, skewing his perceptions. Without John there after a disastrous case, he needed some other way to steady himself, and thus, the aggressive tapping.

"Tea, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson poked her head into the room.

Sherlock tapped four short beats and three long ones, "I'm sorry Mrs. Hudson, I'm afraid I'm having tea with the devil today."

Arching a sharp eyebrow, Mrs. Hudson retreated to the kitchen. Moments later, she returned with a cup of steaming tea. Sherlock glanced at it for a couple seconds before turning his gaze on the morning outside his window. The rhythm of tapping kept up: four short and three long.

* * *

"Sherlock," Mycroft announced his name sharply, "You can't do this right now."

"Although you are the government, I'm afraid I am more difficult to control," Sherlock shifted in the chair that he'd sat in for the past four hours, "You came surprisingly fast, Mycroft." Four short beats, and two long.

"Those imbeciles can handle a couple hours by themselves, brother mine. I know John is away, but you are not allowed to shut down. You have to continue on like a normal person. Drink tea, perhaps?"

Mycroft's hand brushed the cup Mrs. Hudson had set in front of Sherlock.

"Just a second brother dear, I don't do this for just anyone, you know."

"Oh aren't I special," Sherlock called as Mycroft left the room.

Time passed by, eternally ticking and ticking and ticking, Sherlock's fingers kept tapping and tapping and tapping, and Sherlock himself couldn't stop thinking and thinking and thinking. If he hadn't let that idiot Donovan in the door first, or if he had steamrollered Anderson's stupid idea that led to nowhere, or if John could just get back HOME in BAKER STREET where he BELONGED instead of gallivanting off in that Spa-

A tea cup appeared in front of Sherlock.

"Drink it, Sherlock. Don't be so stubborn."

Mycroft sat in John's chair, and Sherlock nearly shot up in his seat. His rhythm fluttered for a second, and settled. Four short beats, three long, four short beats, and two long.

"Mycroft," he breathed deeply, "get out."

"Not until you drink it."

"Mycroft! This is my house!"

"Just drink the tea Sherlock."

"MRS. HUDSON!" Sherlock's bellow startled crows a couple miles away.

"Yes Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson's voice was timid in contrast.

"Will you please get this man out of here? He doesn't have a case, and I'm not dealing with anyone who doesn't have a case." Sherlock threw his non-tapping arm out to point at Mycroft, "And also, I can't deal with him right now."

Mycroft sighed, "Sherlock, you're being dramatic. Thank you Mrs. Hudson, but I can escort myself out."

Sherlock's slim fingers drummed out another couple beats.

Mycroft swept out of the room, and Sherlock muttered, "He would look better with a trench coat."

* * *

"Dear god Sherlock, how long have you been sitting here?" Lestrade shoved his way through the door.

"Only for thirty-five hours and twenty minutes, not counting the time I had to use the loo because I may have low standards of personal hygiene, but if I ever go that low you need to pry me out of this chair and forcibly bathe me."

Lestrade stared at Sherlock for a couple of seconds. Sherlock's eyes were raw and his hair was messy, though this was usually the case. Two untouched cups of tea were placed in front of him, Lestrade noted curiously. "Is this about the case?"

"Is this about the case? What do you think, Graham, can't you puzzle this one out?" Sherlock's reply came swiftly.

"My name's Greg, and from the sarcasm in your voice, it is about the case. Sorry about that."

Sherlock drummed his fingers rapidly on the folder, with no discernable pattern that Lestrade could see.

"Will you please just leave? I don't have the time or patience to deal with anyone right now." Sherlock held his anger at the man in, presenting an aloof front.

Lestrade ran a hand through his hair. I think you need to eat something. Drink something at least." He gave a pointed glance to the cold teacups in front of Sherlock.

"How domestic, you sound like Mycroft," Sherlock said. His tone was chilly and petulant, a conflicting mix, yet one that suited Sherlock perfectly.

Lestrade rolled his eyes and disappeared from view. Moments later, Sherlock heard a clattering of pots and pans upon the floor. He winced at the sound of a shattering mug, but resolved to let Lestrade deal with it. After all, it was Lestrade's fault the case went wrong.

Sherlock inhaled. Something smelled rich and bitter. A coffee mug was shoved under his nose. Sherlock peered into the murky brown liquid, and contemplated the relative Englishness of Lestrade.

"Come on Sherlock, it won't fix anything, but it'll make you feel better."

Sherlock felt a sudden surge of anger at the thought that Lestrade was playing mother hen to him. Sherlock delicately took the mug and set it next to the pair of teacups. His pattern of tapping somehow remained uninterrupted.

"Lestrade," he said.

"Yes?"

"Leave now."

Lestrade looked as if he was almost about to argue, but closed his mouth and gently closed the door.

* * *

John was stretched on the beach. It'd been a while since he'd been to Spain, and so far, he was enjoying his vacation. The cloudless sky was robin's egg blue, and the sand was soft and warm. The sound of the ocean waves crashing onto the beach only added to the feeling of serenity. Yes, John Watson was definitely glad he'd taken the week off.

There was a background humming noise that John first confused with the waves, but as it grew louder, he deduced it was a helicopter. He wasn't particularly annoyed, the occasional helicopter did fly by sometimes.

A gust of wind blew sand, no longer pleasant and soft, but grainy and harsh into John's eyes and mouth. He squinted, spat out the sand, and stumbled to his feet. A trio of helicopters landed on the otherwise peaceful beach. When Mycroft stepped out, making a beeline toward him, John suddenly dreaded what was to come.

"John Watson, please come with me." Mycroft was in full command mode and was clearly not taking shit from anyone.

"Do I, by any chance, have a say in this?" John asked.

"Of course not. I'll brief you in the helicopter." Mycroft motioned to the middle helicopter. It was deceivingly light blue, and not something you'd expect the most important person in the U.K. to ride in.

Mycroft noticed John's questioning look, and said, "I find anonymity preferable to assassination."

John sighed and prepared himself for a long, and most likely Sherlockian problem.

John made his way into the room. Even though he knew Mycroft could've persuaded him to do this, John was helping Sherlock because he cared. John entered the room. The tapping ceased. Then it started up again, faster than ever before.

"Sherlock, I'm here."

"John," and Sherlock stopped. Something caught in his throat.

John took the three cups of liquid.

"Coffee," he sniffed, "Lestrade I presume? I'll go make you a proper cup of tea."

By the time John returned, Sherlock had collected himself.

"Sorry for pulling you away from vacation," Sherlock said.

John rolled his eyes.

"Don't be," he said, "You should have texted me yourself. Actually, whenever you feel like this, text me or call me or something. I'll try to come, because I'm here for you."

Sherlock was silent for a moment. His tapping stopped and didn't begin again. He took a sip of tea.

"John," he choked out, "Thank you."

"Get out of that chair, and hug me now," John grinned, holding out his arms.

Sherlock rammed into him with a solid hug.

"Thank you John," he whispered into John's ear.

A little while later, they retreated to Sherlock's bedroom, and the less said about that, the better.


End file.
